Partnerships Can Kill: The Third Charlie Parker Mystery (9 page)

"You haven't changed since fifth grade," she
said.

I hopped off the examining table, and gave
her a hug. "Neither have you. Do you ever get out of here long
enough to have lunch with an old friend?"

"Rarely. But it happens now and then. So,
when do you want to
do lunch
?"

"I'm serious, Linda. Pick a day, and I'll be
there."

"Next Wednesday. Twelve-thirty. High Noon
Restaurant in Old Town."

"Watch me, I'm writing it down." I took the
small spiral from my purse, and made notes.

Linda scratched a couple of notes on a
multiple part billing form. "Hand this to the receptionist,
Charlie. There's no charge."

"Oh, no you don't," I said. I remembered that
she'd only had two other patients for the day. "You can't give your
services away." I looked her straight in the eye.

"Okay, minimum charge."

She gave me her
don't argue with me
look. We exchanged another hug, and I left. At the front desk, the
receptionist said, "That'll be twenty-one sixteen with the
tax."

I gave her a check for forty and told her to
adjust the billing accordingly.

Outside, the day was already turning into
another warm one. A couple of cottony clouds sat atop Sandia Peak,
but they didn't look quite powerful enough to build into rain
producers. Anyway, the weatherman hadn't predicted any moisture,
and it looked as though we might already be heading for our typical
hot dry June. I let the engine idle a minute or two, then turned
the air conditioner up full blast. The visit to Linda Casper had
served as a pleasant interlude between investigatory duties. I
proceeded toward the address Sharon had given me.

Sharon was right
about Ben Murray. His office was down on South Broadway, in an area
where most businesses had boarded up and left. The ones that stuck
it out were heavily protected. Murray's office was upstairs over a
pawn shop with windows outlined in silver burglar alarm tape, then
coated with steel mesh, and finally covered by wrought iron bars. I
entered a narrow door off the street, and stepped into a three foot
square space facing a dilapidated wooden staircase. The closed-in
area was musty with the smell of old cigarettes, with dust and
mouse turds to add ambiance. Given David's inclination toward
classy, expensive touches in his personal life, I had a hard time
imagining him coming here for financial advice.

At the top of the steep stairs was another
space about three feet square that served as landing and entrance
to Murray's offices. His name had been hand lettered, probably by a
six-year-old, on the opaque rippled glass panel in the top half of
the door. I turned the cheap doorknob tentatively.

Murray's taste in furnishings ran to the
economical. The room I stepped into was meant as a reception area.
It was furnished with a wooden desk, from which various sized
chunks of the veneer were missing. An old-fashioned rotary dial
phone in a peculiar shade of turquoise and an overflowing ashtray
were the only visible desk accessories. A manual Royal typewriter
with chipped paint stood on a metal typing stand beside the desk.
It wasn't covered, and had a good quarter inch of dust on it. The
only other furnishings in the reception room were two matching
chairs with an end table between them. They were avocado green
vinyl, which coordinated beautifully with the orange and green shag
carpeting—something long and treacherous, looking like it could
easily harbor small rodents. Another overflowing ashtray sat on the
table between the chairs.

No human being had yet taken notice of me,
although I suspected tiny multi-legged creatures of the night were
well aware of my presence. In the background I could hear a low
monotone male voice, like one side of a phone conversation that was
purposely being kept quiet. I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what
to do with my hands, certain that I didn't want to sit down or
touch anything. Finally, I ahummed a couple of times.

"In a minute!" The male voice was sharp and
angry sounding, and made me flinch. I was very tempted to tiptoe
out of there, then clamber down the wooden stairs as fast as I
could. Just as I began to give this serious consideration I heard
the phone in the other room being returned to its cradle rather
violently.

Ben Murray appeared in the doorway, almost
blocking it completely. He must have been close to six-four, and at
least two hundred-sixty pounds. The front two-thirds of his scalp
was shiny bald, and he combed what was left straight back. The thin
dishwater blond hair in back had been pulled into a rubber band,
leaving a pony tail about an inch and a half long. His round face
showed few wrinkles, and I guessed him to be about forty.

He wore a summer-weight linen looking shirt
of pale yellow with no undershirt, and I could see the outline of
his nipples through it. He had breasts many women would envy. He
was apparently into personal decor, because he wore a heavy gold
chain at his throat, a matching one, smaller, on his right wrist, a
large watch with heavy gold band, a gold ring with a single
turquoise nugget about the size of a nickel on one hand, and one
encrusted with a similar-sized display of diamonds on the other. I
was surprised to see that kind of ostentation in this neighborhood.
Some of the local youth I had seen hanging around at the corner
looked like they'd cut a necklace like that right off a person,
just below the jugular.

Murray's cotton twill pants had formed
accordion pleats on either side of the groin and at the waistband,
where they crunched down to accommodate his basketball-sized belly.
The buttons on the shirt were trying valiantly to keep it together
across the front, but it was a losing battle.

"Whatta ya want?" His voice was every bit as
friendly as it had been moments earlier, making me wish I had run
while I still had the chance.

"I'm here about David Ruiz," I said, sounding
a lot braver than I felt.

"So?"

"Have you heard he was killed?"

"Yeah. Saw it in the paper."

"His business partner, Sharon Ortega, has
hired me to check into his death." I handed him one of my business
cards. "Had David mentioned the audit notices he had received from
the IRS?"

His face closed, telling me nothing. "I don't
have to tell you anything about my client. That's privileged
information."

I wasn't sure at this point whether I wanted
to let this man know that I'm a CPA myself. There is no legally
privileged information between an accountant and a client. As a
matter of professional courtesy, an accountant does not talk with
others about his client's business, but when the law steps into it,
the CPA can find himself in the slammer just as quickly as the next
guy. I could see, however, with this one the only thing I'd get by
arguing was a swift boot out the door.

"Look, I'm just trying to help David's
partner," I said, adopting what I hoped looked like a kindly
attitude. "Sharon needs to know where things stand right now.
Especially with this IRS question up in the air. I'm trying to work
with her, and I can't locate any copies of the financials for the
restaurant. I was hoping you might have copies in your files."

He took a step toward me and stuck an index
finger at my face. "Look, Miss, you won't get anything from me. All
business between David Ruiz and me was private. I got nothin to do
with him killing himself, and no file leaves this office without a
subpoena attached."

"Fine. We can work it that way." I turned to
the door, my hand shaking as I reached for it.

He followed me as far as the doorway, but I
was already halfway down the stairs. "Listen, you little bitch," he
shouted, "you better not drag me into this."

I forced myself to walk slowly, as though I
hadn't heard his words, but in truth I wanted to bolt. As I pulled
open the outside door, I glanced back up. He was still standing at
the top of the stairs, hands on hips, his lips pursed into a tight
knot. I got to my Jeep as quickly as possible and locked myself
safely inside. My fingers were still shaking as I fumbled the key
into the ignition.

I drove several blocks before my mind settled
down enough to form a plan. I realized that continuing south on
Broadway would take me out to the valley. A couple of turns would
get me to the Ruiz place.

The house somehow looked somehow different,
smaller and lonelier, than it had yesterday with all the cars and
people around. I pulled into the driveway behind a two or three
year old gray Pontiac. I couldn't be sure whether it belonged to
the Ruiz's, or if they had company.

I was raising my hand to tap on the aluminum
screen's frame when the front door suddenly opened. A little girl
of about three or four stood clutching a stuffed rabbit by the ear.
She looked as startled as I felt.

"Hi," I said, smiling to put her at ease.
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Ruiz at home?"

Her thumb went straight to her mouth, the
rabbit dangling from her clenched fist. A woman stepped up behind
her.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Mrs. Padilla! I'm Charlie Parker. I met you
here yesterday after the funeral."

"Oh, yes, Charlie. Please, call me Esther.
Come on inside." She stepped back, pushing the screen outward for
me.

"I was wondering if Mr. and Mrs. Ruiz are
home," I told her.

"We were just about to leave for mass," she
said, looking around somewhat apologetically.

"That's all right," I assured her. "I just
wanted to ask one or two questions."

"Let me find Bernice. You can visit with my
granddaughter, Melissa. I was trying to keep her from going outside
yet. We need to keep that pretty dress clean." She pried Melissa
off her leg, and gave her a gentle push toward me.

I'm always at a loss for something to say to
children in situations like this. My repertoire of kiddie
small-talk is sadly lacking, I'm afraid. I smiled at her, and she
retreated a couple of steps.

"What's your rabbit's name?" I said
tentatively.

She mumbled something past her thumb, and
hugged the rabbit closer to her. She'd make a real protective
little mommy one day.

"That's a neat vest he's wearing," I
commented, thinking privately that a rabbit dressed in a
pin-striped vest was an odd toy for a little girl. Usually such
things were pink and fluffy, I thought. Melissa made no reply to my
overtures. I was about to ask how she thought the Dow Jones would
do this week, when Bernice Ruiz appeared from the other room.

She was dressed in full mourning, including a
black lace mantilla. Her hands fluttered a lot as she spoke, and
she was clearly not in much better shape than she'd been yesterday.
I noticed, for the first time, that she'd brought out a lot of
pictures of David. Most were eight-by-ten studio portraits in dime
store gold metal frames. They began with David as an infant, and
went right on up to one that had to have been taken within the past
year. A couple of larger frames held collages of family snapshots,
and I saw a few that were probably David and his cousin Michael
together at about high school age. The two boys looked remarkably
alike. In a couple of the pictures, they could have easily been
brothers.

I hadn't noticed that much resemblance in
person, but of course I had never seen them together. I turned my
attention back to Bernice.

"I'm really sorry to be bothering you so
soon," I said. "I just have a question or two."

She perched primly on the edge of the afghan
covered couch, indicating the ugly brown recliner for me.

"I'm trying to locate some business records
that David would have had. Did he ever bring work here? Or, did he
keep any files here?" I knew it was a long shot, even as I
asked.

She shook her head silently. Her mournful
eyes didn't even look as though she truly comprehended the
question.

"Did he have a special girlfriend?"

"Of course," she replied. "Libby Marquez.
She's a wonderful girl from the church. So devoted to David, she
was. We expected an engagement announcement any time. She sat right
by my side all day yesterday." Her eyes grew bright with tears.

I had a vague memory of a girl sitting next
to Bernice after the funeral. She had worn a plain dark skirt and
blouse, no makeup, her hair pulled back from her face at the sides
and secured with barrettes. She had held Bernice's hand, but other
than that I couldn't remember much about her. From what I had seen
of David, he preferred the flashy type. I remembered the photos in
his office and had a hard time picturing him settling down with
such a mouse.

I had one more question, and I knew it would
be a painful one.

"Bernice, do you know if David owned a
gun?"

This time her face came alive. "No, there is
no way my David would own a gun," she said adamantly.

"Are you
sure
?"

"Of course. David loved living things. Once,
when he was a small boy, he threw a rock and accidentally killed a
bird. That boy was heartbroken. It hurt him so badly to see that
little bird die, after that he would not play with even toy
guns."

"I see." A touching story, I had to admit,
but people do change later in life. With David, I couldn't be
sure.

Chapter 12

I could tell she was getting restive. The
others had gathered near the dining room door, waiting to leave for
church.

"I'll let you get going," I said. "I wonder,
though, could I take one of these pictures of David? I'll return
it, of course."

Bernice seemed reluctant to part with one of
the large ones, but she pulled an envelope of snapshots from the
small drawer in the end table, and leafed through them quickly.

"Will this one be all right?" she asked.

The photo showed David dressed in a three
piece suit, standing with his arm around Sharon. They both held
champagne glasses, obviously at a party somewhere. Perhaps the
grand opening of the restaurant last year.